


The Boy, The Nephew, The Uncle

by VerdantMoth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M, No underage in this, Threesome, Werewolves, all are of age, relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 15:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14191980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: They do not mind the stares as they hold hands in the park, or argue over who gets the last licks of the butternut cone. If mothers’ cover eyes when the Nephew kisses the son, if they stare in disgust as the uncle licks salt from the nephew's shoulders, they give the strange, battered trio the honor of not chasing them away.





	The Boy, The Nephew, The Uncle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxelot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxelot/gifts).



He didn’t mean to, to fall in love with both uncle and nephew. He doesn’t think they meant to fall either. Not for him and certainly not for each other. 

He doesn’t know how it began-no, that is a lie even he cannot believe. It begins with the nephew on a dark night. It begins on a clear, clean night, when the stars are unobstructed and the air is smooth and no monsters but their own desires haunt the tainted town. It start beneath a hollow pine, beside a creek, with nothing more than a sigh and the brushing of pinkies to ignite the fire. 

The first night is gentle, is heated, is the kind of passion pooling in a belly that makes a boy sob and a nephew weep. It is fangs that do not break the skin and claws the puncture jeans to get to the heat only human fingers are allowed. 

The uncle is not so gentle, but the boy likes it. He craves the fangs that sink into his collarbone and sing lispy praises round his name. He needs the claws that bruise his hips and dot his calves with crescent moons only a wolf can lick clean. 

The uncle thinks he is a prize to be won, a trophy to be claimed. The nephew thinks he is spark to be wary of, one that might ignite a flame so deep inside him it would burn him twice through before setting his world on fire. The uncle and the nephew have both had their worlds set aflame before, but neither of them have ever enjoyed the dangerous heat this way.

The flame, the boy, nuzzling at their cheeks, nipping at their knees is sometimes too much to bear. A warm press of the tongue where the hip and thigh meet; deft, too long fingers pressing deep inside of them so that their howls echo together in the night, a tormented, pleasant symphony that the pack pretends they cannot hear. 

No one talks about it, about the strange bond of the boy and the nephew and the uncle. No one acknowledges the way they curl on the couch during movies, so that one cannot discern whose jeans clad knee is hooked over a sweater covered belly. They do not appreciate the choreography of their kitchen routine, where the uncle stirs and the nephew chops and the boy blends until meals fit for royalty grace a table both too big and too small for its diners. The desperate alpha hates the way the uncle and nephew corrupt the boy, but the boy spreads his ashes so that the desperate alpha kneels before him the way he has made his lovers bow. 

They do not define what they are. No organized dates with suits and ties, because suits and ties are for pack negotiations. No arguing over who splits the bill, because the boy is struggling his way through college, and the nephew and the uncle could not shred all the money they own for fear it might clog the oceans. They do not mind the stares as they hold hands in the park, or argue over who gets the last licks of the butternut cone. If mothers’ cover eyes when the Nephew kisses the son, if they stare in disgust as the uncle licks salt from the nephew's shoulders, they give the strange, battered trio the honor of not chasing them away. 

After all, the boy and the nephew and the uncle protect the town. After all, they cannot begrudge this trio what they have managed to create from the ruins of their lives, and allow the trio of red lips and blond curls and dark eyes their sanctuary. Not when the two trios band together night after night to chase nightmare with nothing more than teeth and a bat. Not when they come into stores bloody and bruised and limping, and pay for their replacement shirts and pants with money covered in blood from the past when the town refused to see true corruption.

These two trios, they keep this town alive and they keep it afloat. 

It does not make the nights the boy cries out, shaking as his human body writhes in pain, any more normal. But what is normal about two sets of strong hands turning black with his pain? Has an uncle ever loved a nephew beneath him until he is sweating and panting and desperate, and let a boy with a wet mouth urge him to completion? Has any nephew ever loved an uncle with sharp thrust and firm arms and salty kisses?

The boy knows the answer. He knows what they have and how it defies logic, defies law, and defies tradition. But he has a bat, and he has two wolves, and should anyone attempt to come between him and what is his, he’ll sic the wolves on the poor soul and crush their disgust with his aluminum.


End file.
